Shadow Dance
by Alysun
Summary: Severus Snape, known traitor and Potions Master is found dead in his room at Hogwarts. It wasn't the Death Eaters. It wasn't the Aurors. Angst and such like ensues. Lots of inner monolouge. Well, it could be classed as G. And the title is, admittedly crap


**The Shadow Dance.**

_And here we have it. A new fic. One that I promise to complete this time.. *looks guiltly at all the other unfinished fics that litter her account*. Ah well. I actually know where I'm going with this. PG for the moment, though it might as well be general. I think there's some language issues, and then there's always imagery to be concerned about. Never mind. I'm sure you can all cope. Please read and review. Alysun._

~*~

Waiting. Waiting for so long. Waiting for a chance to strike, waiting for the time to come. Waiting to rise again. Waiting for the world to bow to his demands.

Waiting.

Waiting for insanity to seep in.

~*~

The Dark Lord was a patient man, at time. Of course, he had his moments. He did not like waiting for things he perceived to be short tasks, simple tasks. He did not like waiting for excuses and he did not like waiting for his beloved traitor to be killed. Or maybe eradicated. Yes, that was better. Eradicated. Like a bothersome infestation of rats or beetles. Destroyed and eliminated. Then, the Dark Lord would be content. The Potter boy was irretrievably broken. It had taken time, a lot of time, but he was dead now. Three years after he had left that damned school, he had felt the true power of the Unnameable Evil, felt his wrath burn down on him like an icy sword of revenge. He had fallen. The world had panicked. 

Panic. Oh, how Voldemort liked to see the masses panic, running around like headless chickens, like ants when their colonies were destroyed. Ants. He liked that analogy. Small and insignificant, though it was possible for them to deliver a bite. A small, insignificant bite. These were just ants, nothing special. Nothing African, inch long monstrosities. Just garden ants. 

True, when the Traitor had been dealt with, there was always the Old Fool to remove from the picture. But Voldemort had a cunning plan for that. A plan that would be irresistible to the old man, a plan formed through the infallible logic of his second-in-command. Lucius Malfoy. As sharp and as intelligent as he was beautiful. 

But incapable of taking out the slippery bastard that was Severus Snape.

And that irked the Dark Lord. He had always judged Lucius to be the slipperiest of his Death Eaters, and yet even he, his best assassin, could not eradicate this disease. Malfoy had returned after attempting to take out Snape looking a little flustered but not much else. Voldemort didn't trust himself to imagine what had happened in fear of becoming unnecessarily furious. All the same… Snape still walked the earth. 

It was enough to drive him insane. It was enough to make him want to scream and kill Snape with something entirely unsubtle, like a bomb. 

Poisons did not work on the Potions Master. He knew all of them inside out and always carried a few damned bezoars around with him. 

Daggers caused him stupid amounts of pleasure if used correctly; or in Voldemort's point of view, incorrectly. Besides, he didn't stay still long enough to stab. 

He slept in quarters so well warded that it would take all night to get to him. 

There was only one heavily warded fireplace in his rooms at Hogwarts, where it was impossible to apparate in and out. 

There were no mirrors, no portraits, no nothing in those frugal rooms. Nothing but his bloody potions. 

Lord Voldemort sat in his underground lair and tapped his fingers on the arm of his throne thoughtfully. He must kill Severus Snape. That much was certain. But how?

It must be unexpected. Must be unlooked for. Must be… 

~*~

It had taken him four years for this plan to emerge in his usually electric mind. But here it was. Voldemort idly admired his nails while Lucius sat at the other side of the desk, reading through his plans, a pensive look on his face. 

"My Lord…" the silken voice started. "Congratulations on a wonderful plan…"

Voldemort stretched lazily. "Naturally," was all he said. 

"Of course, yes… but why use them? We still haven't broken into Azkaban. We were going to do that once the traitor was dead…"

"Change of plan, Lucius. One for the better," Voldemort told him, flashing sharpened teeth as he spoke. "And the Lestranges are necessary. Snape would not expect them."

"Yes, my Lord," Lucius agreed doubtfully. "But what makes you think he'll be taken in by them?"

"If we get it announced that Adrienne and Antoine Lestrange have died in Azkaban…"

"Snape will think he's gone insane," Lucius interrupted. "You know what he's like. Paranoid. He'd just end up killing them."

"I don't think so," Voldemort replied, toying with his quill in long, pale fingers. "Think about it, Lucius… two of your former colleagues, frightened and scared come to you late at night and beg for you to take them in. What do you do?"

"Kill them, my Lord," Lucius replied. 

"Of course you would, my pet," Voldemort answered. Lucius' expression became a little frozen. "You are not of the same mindset as Snape."

"No, my Lord," Lucius returned. "But Snape is too paranoid. He would just kill them and have done with it."

"On Hogwarts ground? I don't think so. The Old Fool can smell an AK a mile off. We both know this. Besides, I think Antoine Lestrange may have his uses later."

"Perhaps," Lucius said unwillingly. The blond looked distinctly unhappy about this plan, and Voldemort couldn't help but wonder why. "The Lestranges are the key, Lucius," he insisted. 

"Yes, my Lord, but I think there might be a better way…"

Voldemort's eyes sparked with fire for a moment, but he said nothing. Lucius knew Snape better than he did. It annoyed him, but it was true.  

"If I could have a few days…"

"Fine. You have till tomorrow night, no longer," Voldemort snapped at him. Lucius rose quickly, taking the plans with him.

"Thank you, my Lord," he muttered before bowing and hurrying out of the room, plans clutched to his chest. 

~*~

Dumbledore felt old. And tired. Weariness was etched into his soul, his eyes spoke of many sleepless night spent worrying fruitlessly. Minerva was worried, he knew, as was Poppy. The whole teaching staff was worried, if he was honest… 

Well. All except Severus, but that was no surprise to Albus Dumbledore. As he saw it, Severus had endured more hardship than any of them, and so, he didn't concern himself unduly with Severus' lack of worry. 

He did worry about Severus himself, however. The man was looking terrible. True enough, he had never been a beauty queen, in any figure of speech, but now the Potions Guru was truly a sight for sore eyes. Sallow skin stretched over bony features, his hair lank and unwashed, his eyes dull and emotionless. His clothes seemed to hang from him as though he was merely a clothes hanger, rather than a wearer. Grey was starting to streak his jet black hair and a sour, scowling mask was forever on his face. 

Voldemort was back, had been for ten years now, and finally their defences were starting to crumble. Harry had died heroically, but without meaning. He was now just another name on the lengthening list of deceased. Nobody had been untouched by the horrors and nightmares that Voldemort had wreaked upon their land. The Slytherins had found themselves subject of much unfounded accusations and suffered their fate in haughty disgust of the world. Dumbledore doubted that they would all go over to Voldemort, but at the same time, knew that there would be a sizable number that would. 

Severus was working on them, as far as Dumbledore knew. Or at least, he had been. He never saw the man now. He was never in the teacher's lounge, his usual seat left empty day after day. He was never at meals, Minerva now in the habit of having an elf run down with food for him. Dumbledore could only guess that Severus taught his lessons and retired immediately to his chambers. Whether he slept or not was a mystery to the aged Headmaster, though if the bags under Snape's eyes were anything to judge by, he did not. 

The man's temper had reached a peak, lashing out at students with the slightest excuse. More than one tearful first year had been escorted by his or her friends to Dumbledore's office. But Albus didn't have the heart to speak of it to Severus. It must be hard for him. 

They both knew, they _all_ knew that Voldemort's evil eye was trained on Severus. There was nothing that could be done about it but to sit it out, waiting for Severus to die. It was somewhat depressing.

And inductive to guilt. Dumbledore felt incredibly guilty for this. He had promised Severus protection and security when he had turned spy. The man had both, but was still hunted, haunted by his past. Albus wondered if he was still subject to nightmares. Poor man. 

Resolved, he decided that something should be done. Not about the whole Voldemort situation; that was an impossibility. No, he would go and find Severus, talk some sense into him. Try and sort something out.  

He levered himself out of his chair and winced a little as he straightened up. Time was finally catching up with him. Fawkes cooed to him soothingly from her perch by his desk. Albus' face crinkled into a slight smile at his feathered friend and stroked her plumage fondly. 

"Back later," he murmured to her and turned away. He left his circular room and commenced the winding stairway which transported him down and out into the hallway. He brushed himself off and checked his watch. Nine o'clock. 

Good. It was after curfew, so the students would be locked away in their common rooms and dormitories safely. The curfew had been raised from half past nine to eight o'clock in view of Voldemort's impending figure on the horizon. He sighed sadly to himself and made his way down to the dark dungeons. Torched crackled as he went, lighting his way in a calm, unchanging light. 

He entered the dungeons and felt the temperature drop immediately. It was always so cold down here… cold and dark. Shadows danced, moving to the tune that the flickering torches piped them silently. They encircled the bowed figure of the shuffling man, dancing to his foot steps, laughing in with their careless fairy footsteps. There was nothing for them to care about. They would always be there, even without the light to cast them. They were shadows and shadows were insatiable for their desire to exist. They curled around life, light and the soul. They thrived in the dark hours of the night where only torches granted them life. 

They danced in the mind, unstoppable footsteps on the soul, tearing sane thought apart. And still, the shadows danced their shameless dance of darkness and light.

Dumbledore did not notice the shadows and knocked on the door to Snape's chambers. There was a silence that followed, one that did not concern Dumbledore. Severus always checked who was knocking before letting them in. He waited. 

The pause stretched longer than was usual and Dumbledore frowned. Maybe Severus hadn't heard. He knocked again. 

Still, no reply. 

"Severus?" he inquired through the door cautiously. He pressed his ear to a crack and listened intently. Nothing. Maybe he was in the shower or something. Or asleep. Dumbledore tried the door and, to his great surprise, the door swung open. He stared a little. Severus always had his door locked, bolted and warded to the nth degree.  And yet, the door opened… Albus took a hesitant step into the cold chambers. 

The first thing he noticed was that the fire was unlit. He went over and saw that it was freshly swept. Funny. The elves only swept out the fire grates later at night, about eleven o'clock. Maybe they came here early. Or perhaps Severus hadn't lit a fire that day… The later though made him frown. It was too cold down here to do without a fire. 

He turned his back on the cold grate and observed the deserted office. Everything was unusually neat. The potions on the shelves were always orderly, as were the many books. But the desk was usually an unacceptable mess, but now… Piles of marking were neatly lined up, red inked comments scrawled over the parchment. The wooden top of the desk was actually visible, stained as it was. 

Albus approached the desk and took a closer look. There was something wrong here… the candle wax had been scraped off the desk as well. There was something missing. Something missing. Other than the mess. Other than the man who usually lurked behind the desk. Something that he couldn't place, and that worried him slightly. The stillness of the chambers bespoke of emptiness, the rooms desolate beyond his own self. 

Concern streaking his face, pulling down the wrinkles in his brow and  bringing up the worry in his eyes, he tried again. "Severus?" he called out to the empty air. 

Nothing. 

And now, it became all the more frightening. Snape was not a man who would stand for the invasion of his private quarters, and normally, Dumbledore respected that. By coming in here uninvited, he was breaking an unwritten rule, and in the normal run of things, Severus would be looming over him right now as though it was he would was the Headmaster of the school, not Albus. But this time, there was nothing. Perhaps Severus was out. But even as the thought flitted across his mind, Dumbledore knew it to be absurd. Snape did not have to be told that it was not safe to go outside any more. The school grounds were more than likely safe, but Severus didn't even like to risk that. These chambers were his hiding place from the world and there was no where else that would do for the paranoid Potions Master. 

Breaking his inert state, Dumbledore's frame jerked into unannounced action once again, and the elderly man made his way over to the door which concealed Severus' bedroom. The man was asleep at last. He had to be asleep. Dumbledore drew his wand and tapped the door handle lightly, trying to detect  whatever wards Severus had used to lock the room with and found, once again, nothing. 

Albus' very blood ran cold. This was not, he assured himself, happening. Not happening at all. Slowly, a gnarled hand closed around the polished gleam of the knob, and twisted. The door opened with the same suspicious ease as the office door had. With a slight push, Dumbledore let go of the handle and let the door swing open of its own accord. 

All that was revealed was the lengthened silhouette on the cold stone floor. The room was black beyond the few bright beams of light that the office torches threw down into the room, like the disgusted hand of a lost poker player. Dumbledore stood in the doorway, framed by the light and strained his eyes to seek for a figure in the bed that was so cloaked by darkness. 

He wondered briefly why the office lights were left on whilst these torches were left untouched. Usually, the light spread through the entire quarters, Severus not liking the cloaking, hiding, shielding effects of the shadows. As he had commented dryly and far too often, shadows hid far too much for them to be trusted. But here was darkness. And in that darkness, Dumbledore's heart leapt, and relief flooded his mind as he made out the shape of a body on the bed. 

Cursing himself for his foolishness, Dumbledore's face was swept with the expression of relief. For one moment, he had thought that somehow the Death Eaters had managed to lure him out.. he shuddered at the thought. Severus had become an attachment to him now, the man's bitter, scathing comments becoming a regularly occurring theme in his life. It was a comforting familiarity, something that never changed. Snape never changed, never at all..

A sharp, acid smell dispersed across the room to reach the crooked nose of the antiquity of a headmaster. It was a smell that he knew all to well. A smell that filled his whole body and mind with a deep dread, a hate filled loathing. The scent of death. Of blood. The room was icy cold, he realised now. And silent. So silent. He couldn't even hear his own breath, until he realised that he had subconsciously held it in view of what he realised he was witnessing.  The Death Eaters hadn't had to lure Snape out of this usual death trap of a place. 

They had come here. 

And suddenly it all made a horrible sense. There were no locks on the door. There was no light in this room, only in the innocent office. There was order, everywhere. Any chaos that had been created would have been carefully tidied away, and so, it looked like the Death Eaters had never.. But who? Which Death Eaters? How on earth had they made it past not only the standard and then improved Hogwarts defences, but past Severus' also..

Once again, Albus' blood temperature dropped a few degrees as he steadied himself on the doorframe of the room. Something that Severus had muttered angrily to him one day but had refused to explain came irrefutably to mind. 

They won't be the death of me, but their work will. 

  
Originally, Dumbledore had taken it in jest, smiled as he imagined Severus keeling over dead at the sight of another poor, inaccurate essay on shrinking potions. The humour had not been returned, but that was not something that the silver haired wizard had been particularly worried about. Severus was known for his lack of humour. But the comment that had accompanied his small chuckle – 'Oh, you laugh now,' – was suddenly horrifyingly chilling. 

A student. 

A death. On Hogwarts grounds. A student. One of his own, had to be. A student. And he had thought that Severus had been dealing with the Slytherins so damned well throughout all this, keeping their respect. 

A _student_!

Dumbledore clapped his knotted hands, the sharp noise cracking through the silence mercilessly, setting the torches that lined the walls crackling into life. And there, on the bed, Dumbledore saw the house colour he had come to relay so heavily on. Red. Bold, brash, daring, to lie on such a deeply Slytherin man. The blood blinded him, and all Dumbledore could do was stare for a moment. This was not happening to him. He couldn't find it in himself to make his eyes search for Snape's face, not wanting to know what it was that he would see. 

And still, the silence dragged on. 

A student. There was blood everywhere, soaked into the dark green of the sheets and the duvet, blood staining the milk white of Snape's skin, red darkening as he stood there, feeling as weak as a kitten all of a sudden. A student. Snape's robes were torn, wild slashes of a knife tearing through the thick black material that had once made up Snape's robes. Tearing up the thin white material that had once made up Snape's skin. Through his heart, judging by the blood loss. The carnage extended down, piercing the flesh of Snape's abdomen, where more blood was setting to congeal, all too late. The sheets held testimony to a struggle, all tangled up, all torn, all a mess. 

With a cold sensation of dread that was no refusing to leave his body or mind, Dumbledore dragged his disbelieving blue eyes up to meet the eyes of Snape. Only to be met with nothing. 

Nothing but a stump. 

And suddenly, it was all too much. There was nothing on the end of Snape's neck but a huge blood stain that had almost  consumed the pillow in its dark, forbidding colour. Dumbledore felt his stomach retch at the uncensored sight, but forced the sensation down. Minerva would not be seeing this. Now, and only now, Dumbledore took in the full image of his once best ally, the man once in his care, the man once in his life. There were no hands either, which was peculiar. The head, Dumbledore could understand. Voldemort's followers were sick. Hands, however, were a new level of a grotesque art and Dumbledore grieved the loss of such perfect, artesian fingers that had once danced so elegantly.. he heaved a dry sob and tore his eyes from the scene. Oh, GODS, this was not happening! Not now! Not to him! 

He wished, and how he wished, that he was not who he was, just for ten minutes. He longed to be some shop owner on Diagon, and had only to worry for the life of himself, family and shop. But here he was, leader of the Order, headmaster of the school. He might as well be running the entire wizarding community. And Severus' headless body only indicated blatantly that he was failing if he couldn't even protect his own. 

Turning his back on the room, he slammed the door in a flash of uncharacteristic rage. Bumpkin! He could! He would! It was.. there was a hasty knock on the door. Dumbledore's hated introspection was pulled out and slowly, he forced his mouth to articulate the word, "Enter."

An elf skittered into the room. "Dobby is sorry sir, but Dobby is here with a message of most importance, Professor Dumbledore, sir. Minister Fudge is sending Dobby to tell sir that there has been a break out, from Azkaban, sir."

~*~

"He's dead, my Lord."

Voldemort's icy features curled irresistibly into a smirk, a smug satisfaction playing in his eyes. "Didn't I tell you, my pet?" he crowed. 

Lucius bit back a wince. There was something about the name 'pet' that really didn't sit with him so well. Which was all together strange, since he had no objection to going on walks or wearing a collar… but that was an entirely different story.  And right then, the most senior Malfoy had other bombshells to drop. 

"Unfortunately, my lord, we didn't kill him."

There. He had said it. On the plus side, he was still standing and not dead yet, which was always a good sign. He had considered sending someone else to deliver the Dark Lord this news, but had grudgingly assigned himself the task as the entire Inner Circle was overcome with a mysterious illness that made them blabber incoherently and fall to their knees in a grovelling position. And here he was, telling the Dark Lord the latest gossip. As though he didn't have anything better to do. 

The pause really was dragging on for far too long.

"We.. didn't?" the blood eyed man asked. 

"No, my Lord, we did not, though someone did. The Old Fool found him last night in his sleeping quarters, decapitated and de-..handicated?" Damn, he really hated it when the words didn't flow. He flipped his hair over his shoulder to compensate for his minor error. The Dark Lord would understand him. He always did. 

"De.. handicated?" the perplexed leader of hell hounds queried. 

Well. Nearly always. He was a man with a lot on his hands, after all and couldn't be expected to know everything.. "His hands were chopped off," Lucius explained, allowing himself to sound a little hurt at his master's insensitivity. Fortunately, the error was picked up on as a clawed hand petted his silver head hurriedly. Lucius smiled serenely as the claws scraped through his white gold hair. He did so love to be loved. 

"Oh," was his rather enigmatic answer. "Then who was it?"

"We have yet to know, my Lord," Lucius continued on contentedly, now that the minor glitch had been smoothed over. "Though I have arranged investigations to be held. The Ministry links we have will have to be exploited."

"Naturally," Voldemort said, maintaining a rather monosyllabic speech, for now. "And the Lestranges?"

Are still insane, Lucius was tempted to reply. Nearly two decades of Azkaban was enough to drive anyone up the wall, round the bend, batty, bananas, nutters and all the rest. Apparently, it had been more than enough for Antoine Lestrange who resided happily in his bed besides Adrienne who drifted in and out of coherency. Lucius was thankful that he did not have to explain their ineffectiveness to his Lord. In their prime, the married couple made a formidable duo, one that had brought fear into the hearts of many. Voldemort had informed Lucius that he had intended to use Lestrange for his prowess in Potions. Although the man was no where near Snape's league, he possessed a talent that would fulfil what would be expected of him with ease. Adrienne, he had been told, would be for recruiting. She had a very effective recruiting method, one that the Dark Lord had sorely missed when she and her husband had been incarcerated. 

However, as the Malfoy well knew, the pair of them were good for nothing beyond lying in a double bed together, each clinging to the other as though they would be ripped apart again for another twenty years if they let go. They would have to be re-educated before any sense was made of their senselessness. 

"Are still held within their quarters, my Lord," Lucius answered. 

  
His master sighed. "I want," he said, and then paused. Lucius' face was the very picture of childish willing and expectancy. 

"I want peaches."

"It shall be done, my Lord." 

"And cream."

"Yes, my Lord." Sometimes, it was best just not to ask. 

~*~

It had taken a long time. Longer than he would have liked, but he had done it. He was dead. Deader than a dodo and there was nothing suggesting otherwise. He had made sure. All his waiting had paid off, leaving him a free man. Free until the next time, at least.

~*~

Peter Pettigrew was not a happy man. He hadn't been happy since the age of ten, when nothing had existed beyond his mother and the street he lived on as a kid. He had been of a poor disposition, his mother an invalid and his father unknown to him. But it had been a reasonably happy childhood, as childhoods went. Until his mother told him exactly what he was. Exactly who he was. And then it was too late and he was all packed and ready to go off to Hogwarts, a pureblood child raised as a Muggle and horrendously confused as a result. Life had continued on a steady downward curve from there on, and now, here he was. Standing in a cold field with his wand. And with the rain. Hard to forget the rain. The rain that was drenching him to the bone, flattening his thinned hair, dripping off his bright red nose, stinging his even brighter red ears as he shivered, dislodging more water to run down his already soaking back. 

God, how he hated rainwater. 

It seemed colder and wetter and stickier than all other kinds of water, and it lasted for longer. He hated the British weather. The sky was grey with a mizzling fog that swept off over the fields for miles. Bloody weather. The rain was not hard, bouncing, short sharp showers, but the kind of rain that you know, just *know*, is going to last for days. 

And Peter was willing to bet that it would stop on the day he had finished his work, the sun would come out and shine cheerily on his working ground. That was the way his luck ran. Had always run, from the age of ten. Bad to worse, but everything was bloody wonderful when he wasn't there..

Peter was not a nice man. He knew he wasn't, and he knew that the Inner Circle hated him. He wasn't part of the Inner Circle. He wasn't really part of anything, never had been. Not really. He had jacked in his own 'friends' for the acceptance of this new power, only to find himself hated for giving the Death Eaters their target of months on a silver platter. It was just the way his luck ran. 

Or didn't. 

Which was why he was here, traipsing over fields hunting for Snape's head. And whatever was removed in dehandication. The Dark Lord had been quite explicit about that, and Peter didn't like to ask. The dictionary failed to supply him with a definition, and so he just had to hope that whatever it was would be found with the Traitor's head. Although, knowing his luck.. he tripped over an inopportune clump off grass and went flying into the sodden dirt of the mucky grass face first. 

Knowing his luck, he'd find nothing and then get an earful. It didn't help him at all to know that that would just be the start. Peter sighed heavily and brought himself to his feet, mud now smearing his clothes as well as the rain. He looked as though he'd either been dumped in a vat of chocolate or a huge cowpat. And to judge by smell alone…

Trust it to be him to be sent out for what Malfoy bracingly called 'field work'. Peter was willing to bet that Malfoy barely knew what a field was. Peter was willing to bet that 'mud' was one of those words that Malfoy would have to go and look up. Peter was willing to bet that Malfoy hadn't even bothered asking anyone else to go on this hellish task.. 

There had, of course, been magical investigations as to the whereabouts of Snape's head. There always where. But the inquiries of both the Ministry and of the Death Eaters drew a blank, and the Old Fool was preparing for a funeral that severely lacked a head to it. Peter wiped some mud out of his eye with his sleeve, only to transfer the mud off his sleeve into his eye. He hated life. 

He was a bloody Gryffindor. He should be out there, in Dumbledore's cosy living room being tutored in the fine arts of Auror-ing. As it was, he was in the empty expanse of grey and brown, dismally aware that this was as far as he was going to make it in the ranks of the Death Eaters. Despite the fact that it had been he who had bothered to resurrect his Lord. 

Sometimes, he wondered why he bothered. And now, he couldn't escape it. He had trapped himself in and there was no way out. Not even if he lived as a rat again. Suddenly Ron's bed seemed so appealing to his small and scarred mind. Ever so appealing. Just somewhere to curl up and sleep without having to worry about the damnest thing in the world until the girl had bought that cat. Being fed regularly and well, only poked occasionally, only held by his tail when he misbehaved. And chased after by the little girl when she had been a baby. He would never forgive her for dressing him up in doll's clothes. But he hadn't wriggled too much. He hadn't squeaked too loudly. He had bitten Goyle's finger. 

He had been a *good* pet. 

And now, here he was, unable to escape through his animagus form because the Dark Lord was everywhere and would find him in the end. Which meant that he would end up with Snape, six foot under. 

Well. Mostly six foot under. 

Scanning the ground with his wand, Peter trudged on, searching for the ever elusive head of Severus Snape. Part of him hoped he didn't find it. Some how, he doubted Snape's expression would be pleasant and that maggots would have set to work by now. Even beyond that.. 

Severus Snape had been the reason Peter had joined the Death Eaters. Him and Voldemort himself, the Dark Lord promising the power to overcome his own inhibiting low self esteem and revenge on those he had once called his friends. 

Only now did he see that it was Voldemort's poisoned words that had made James, Sirius and Remus so bad. But it was all too late now. 

He had been at school with Snape. The dark haired outcast had seemed amazing to his innocent mind. How one so hated and so abused could manage to walk, straight back and proud and answer back to every cruel word sent his way. Peter had started to see himself as the Gryffindor's version of Snape. The only problem being, he couldn't find the stubborn ferocity that led Snape to defy those who brought him down. He lacked the fiery love of knowledge, the ambition to learn all there was to know, the slyness to gain the revenge over his enemies by his own means. 

In short, Peter Pettigrew lacked the Slytherin streak that Snape harboured within his blackened soul. 

Still, he went on, near idolising Snape to the point of signing his life away to a man who promised and promised, delivered once and then promised again. Signing his life away to a man who had died the instant Peter had given his whole universe to look after with clawed hands. 

Just his rotten luck, really. 

For a moment, Peter stopped in his work and stretched, feeling the crick in his neck from constantly looking down reaching an unbearable limit. He pulled out his muscles to their fullest limit, as though just waking from a night's sleep. A soft sigh as seemingly have the seven oceans poured down the back of his neck from various different sources. 

He really bloody hated rain. 


End file.
